


When The Weather Comes Tearing Down

by mjau (Mjau)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, am i allowed to do this help, hello my name is v and i am an e/r virgin, this is a reincarnation fic with a twist!!, what am i supposed to put here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mjau/pseuds/mjau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>181 years later they find themselves again, and they are whole except for one. Hollowed by two years of captivity and torture in a foreign country, Grantaire remembers nothing of the barricades and the men that built them. He is a helpless victim of a dirty game between states and Les Amis seek to avenge him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WOW I AM TERRIBLE AT SUMMARIES.
> 
> This is my first fic in the Les Mis fandom and indeed here on A03, so hello! This fic is very hard to describe, and I don't want to give too much away, but let's just say that it'll be fairly long, fairly angsty and will eventually have a fair amount of smut (eventually), because who doesn't love e/r smut, right? 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

According to the scratches on the wall, today is day number 487. Day 487 of sitting listlessly in a cold, dank cell with the only light slipping through a window so small a rat would struggle to climb through it. Day 487 of a decidedly suspect scrap of some sort of meat being thrown through the door, day 487 of having to plead in a language that is not his own for water. But given he’d had some only yesterday, he thinks that the next time he drinks will only be in another three days.

487 days feels like 487 years when you never see sunlight, when you’ve only your own dry, ragged voice to keep you company, when you close your eyes and find that recalling the faces of loved ones is getting harder and harder with each passing day.

He sighs and forces himself to stand. It’s no easy job – his arms that had once been so proudly muscular are barely more than bone with a thin covering of skin, his legs that had once run marathons, once played rugby are now mere twigs. Fragile, delicate, he walks around the cell for five minutes and is exhausted by the time he collapses to the cold concrete floor, his breaths falling from his lips in ragged gasps. It’s part of his daily routine – wake up, scratch another number into the wall with a bit of flint, think about home and family and better times, walk around, beg for food and water, and repeat.

487 days ago, he had wandered around a remote village in Mali, a camera on a strap around his neck and his skin a deep olive. He had spent the previous month in the company of a rowdy unit of French soldiers, watching, observing, photographing. It was supposed to be the gig that would elevate his position at the newspaper he worked for back in France from junior reporter to successful photojournalist. He had had so many hopes resting on it, so many dreams and wishes. It had all gone so wrong.

It’s awfully ironic, really, the way things worked out. He’d arrived in Mali a naïve, optimistic young journalist, excited to observe the men who were fighting for the freedoms of the people of Mali and protecting them from the threat of extremism.  He did see the soldiers, and he did see them fighting. But then he also saw them abusing children and innocent civilians, he saw them torturing men who had nothing to give them, he saw them using their time in Mali as an opportunity to exert a fascist dominance over a helpless people. The pride he’d felt turned into horror, the excitement into dread and the antipathy he’d felt for the Malians into a deep compassion. But his newspaper back in Paris didn’t want photographs of mourning Arab families, they didn’t want to see their own soldiers laughing and smoking over the bodies of their victims. He couldn’t give them what they wanted, and in the end he found himself seeking solace from the bottom of contraband vodka bottles and cigarette packets.

It was a terrible thing, and it still fills him with revulsion even after all this time. Seeing the men who are supposed to be doing good doing the complete opposite and knowing that they will get away with it, that they will be protected by the biased western media and the corrupt politicians who sing their praises in parliament… it was a terrible thing, and rotted his naivety into a deep, sardonic cynicism. It was awfully ironic that the men he had come to sympathise with were the ones who had snatched him from his hotel room in the dead of night and the same ones who have held him captive these 487 days.

The door to the cell pushes open and he jumps, quickly crawling away from it to allow a short, dark man in. His guard. The man is some of the only contact he ever has with the rest of humanity, and he always tries to make the most of it, despite the guard’s determination to never give him what he wants.

‘Morning,’ he croaks. ‘What’s new?’

Silence. The man holds out a bucket and drops it on the floor, along with a bar of soap, a razor and a pair of scissors. ‘Shave,’ the man orders in a toneless voice.

‘Thanks, man,’ he replies. ‘No luck on getting me a mirror this time?’

The guard stares blankly at him.

That’s a no, then.

This happens once every two months, and he considers it one of his small luxuries. Once every eight weeks he can rid himself of the thick beard that curls around his jaw, even if it is impossible to shave with this blunt razor and without a mirror. It’s better than nothing.

He wets his face and starts to soap his skin. ‘So? How’s the wife? Kids?’

‘Shut up.’

He complies with a sigh. It is easy to offend these men for some reason, to get on their nerves, and when that happens there’s no knowing the punishment – whether it’ll be several kicks to his ribs and a few to his crotch, or a few days without food and barely a drop of water.

He glances down at his reflection in the water and sighs again. He looks terrible. Gaunt, pale, sickly. He entertains the thought of using the razor to slit his wrists but he knows it’s impossible. He knows that these arseholes want him alive for something. The guard watches his movements like a hawk, his eyes dark and foreboding; the message in them clear – try anything and we’ll make your time here a hell of a lot worse than it already is.

When he’s finished, the guard lifts the bucket and lets the filthy water splash onto the concrete of the cell, uncaringly drenching the wretched prisoner. The parting look he shoots him is part disgust, part cruel indifference. The door to the cell slams shut.

The first few months here were unbearable. At first he had been filled with the optimism that he’d get out, that somewhere in France there were people desperately trying to negotiate with his captors, that one day the door to his cell would burst open and a warm, worried face would smile at him and set him free. But days past, then weeks, then months and there was never so much as a glimmer of hope. The eventual realisation that this was it, he was _alone_ , really alone, with _no one_ who cared enough to try and free him - it broke his heart in a way he thought was impossible. His parents were long dead, his friends were fickle, and he was going to die here, he could feel it. The pain was excruciating, and day after day and night after night his lungs ached with the effort of so much sobbing.

The pain eased with time, the tears dried and he had changed forever. His heart was hopelessly empty, the light that had once shone so brightly in his brown eyes forever dimmed. All he is doing now is surviving. Life is hollow and meaningless, and Grantaire longs for its end.

*

In an old colonial apartment in the city of Casablanca, a young man with dark blond curls and inscrutable blue eyes is standing on the balcony of the master bedroom, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. He’s a thousand miles away, his mind wrapped in thick memories of friends long gone, places long since changed.

‘Enjolras?’

He turns at the voice to see his best friend standing in the doorway to the bedroom, a hand wrapped around the doorframe. ‘Everyone’s asking where you are,’ Combeferre says. ‘I think we should fill them in now, don’t you?’

Enjolras hums in affirmation and lets out a long sigh. He doesn’t move from the balcony, and eventually his friend comes to stand next to him.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods, and drops the cigarette into a glass of water. ‘This place belonged to my grandfather, did I tell you that? Well, he owned it. I don’t think he ever came. He hated Africa. But when his father died, this place was left to him. My great grandparents used to live here,’ he says, and his tone becomes wry, ironic, ‘in the good old day of glorious empire.’ He turns away from the balcony and walks back into the bedroom, taking in the early 1900s décor and running a finger down one of the bedposts, leaving a shiny, mahogany stripe where there was once a thick layer of dust. ‘I don’t think anyone’s been here since the 1920s.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yeah.’ Enjolras smiles, the first since they left Paris, and the effect it has to his features is breath-taking. ‘So I think we might have to pay someone to clean the place.’

‘Might be a good idea,’ Combeferre replies, returning the smile. ‘Are you really okay? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Are you still getting the nightmares?’

‘Yes, but I’m fine. You worry too much, my friend.’

Combeferre follows him from the room and into what can only be described as a drawing room, where they find the rest of their companions, travel weary and sprawled on the antique furniture and looking decidedly out of place in their modern clothing. He sits down next to Courfeyrac and watch Enjolras slump into a regency chair opposite them. He gives a wave of his hand and a jerk of his head that means ‘you start’.

‘As you know, we’re not here for a holiday,’ Combeferre starts, prompting a snort from Coufeyrac and something like a giggle from Jehan. ‘We’re here on… well; I guess you could call it a rescue mission.’

Eight faces look back at him expectantly.

‘I filled them in a bit whilst you two were having a fag outside,’ Courfeyrac explains. ‘I had just told them that the guy we’re going to rescue is of some significance to us. Basically, we know that he’s a photographer, apparently very good at his job. He was sent by his newspaper to cover the work of the French forces in Mali –’

‘Mali?’ Feuilly interrupts. ‘Mali? He’s in Mali? Then why are we in bloody Morocco?’

‘We’ll get to that later,’ Combeferre fills in. He looks to Enjolras as if he is expecting him to speak, but he hasn’t moved from his uncharacteristic slump in the chair, and he hasn’t looked up from his dirty fingernails since they began speaking. ‘It’s a bit complicated.’

‘As I was saying! We know that he went a bit off the rail. He stopped sending updates to the paper and didn’t reply to several attempts by the editor to contact him. When they eventually did track him down, he wasn’t in a good way. It became evident that he had developed a drinking problem, and once they realised that he wasn’t able to do the job any longer they got rid of him. He was supposed to return to France but when he missed the flight, they started to worry. He doesn’t have any remaining family and no one but the paper realised that they hadn’t heard anything from him. When they got in touch with the hotel he had been staying in, they had to bribe the manager to tell them that their CCTV footage showed him being taken from his hotel room in the middle of the night.’

‘We managed to find out that the men who took him are an extremist group who were pretty damn pissed off with what our beloved patria was doing in Mali,’ Combeferre says. ‘They’ve made a few videos with him in which they make the usual sorts of demands; get our troops out of their country, free the prisoners that are in Western captivity, pay a ridiculously large ransom. The thing they didn’t bank on is that there’s no way the French government is going to pay millions to free one alcoholic photographer who seemingly no one knows or cares about. They can’t sell that to the public. So what did they do instead?’

‘They left him to die,’ Enjolras says softly.

There’s a long pause. Enjolras watches the faces of his friends to gauge their responses; horror, disgust, curiosity.

‘He might be dead,’ Courfeyrac says quietly. ‘They might have gotten bored with waiting for a response that’s never going to come and disposed of him already. But even if there’s the slightest chance that he’s still alive, we’re going to go and we’re going to find him and bring him here and eventually back to France.’

‘I know that this poor guy has probably been through hell and back,’ Jehan says gently. ‘But why all this effort for someone we don’t know? What significance is he to us?’

Combeferre and Courfeyrac immediately look at Enjolras, who is staring out of the window.

‘Haven’t you guessed?’ he says. He turns his head slowly and looks at all of them. ‘We’ve been searching for months and months and we’ve finally found him.’

‘Grantaire,’ they all breathe collectively, amazed.

Enjolras smiles wryly, and looks to the window again as he nods. ‘Grantaire.’

*

_Eight bullet holes pierce his chest and the hand in his drops as the men next to him slumps to the floor. He looks at the expression on the man’s face and is struck by how peaceful and completed he looks. Enjolras has time enough to feel his heart swell out of love for him before he closes his eyes and ceases to be._

He can’t pinpoint exactly when he had the first dream, and that’s how he knows that they’ve always been there. He doesn’t remember a life before he dreamt of the barricades.

For years they were just snatches of dreams, barely anything more than blurred faces and buildings and streets that felt eerily familiar. The older he got the more detailed they became; suddenly the men he saw had faces, names, personalities. Combeferre, Coufeyrac, Joly, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Bahorel. The streets he walked down in his dreams came back to him in all their bustling, noisy glory. In his slumber exists another world in which he was inexorably part of, once.

He visited Paris for the first time when he was eighteen. He saved up for a train ticket and told his parents that he was visiting a friend. When he climbed off the train and stepped out of the station, he felt something within him fitting into place. Paris felt like a part of him he had been missing during all the years he spent growing up in the Midi. He did not buy a map from the men selling them outside the station for there was no need. He followed the curves and bends of the streets with nothing but instinct. It felt like proof – proof that he wasn’t insane, proof that the people in his mind and the memories in his dreams were not caused by a brain tumour, proof that they might actually be something _real_.

Something stirred within him as he walked down one particular street. It carried the same familiarity as many others have, but it felt different. He stood still as he stared at the buildings around him, his hands in his pockets and his red coat wrapped around him to fend off the winter chill. Parisians bustled past him, talking over each other, laughing, smoking, and he remembered. He _remembered_. Memory after memory after memory soaked into him. This was where they built the barricade. This was where so many of his hopes rested. This was where so many good men were killed. This was where he died, with Grantaire’s hand clasped in his own.

He choked, and as fate would have it, a man sitting on a bench a little way down the street saw the tears on his cheeks and he digged around in his pocket for a tissue. He approached the crying stranger and offered him the tissue, and when Enjolras turned around to thank him they both gasped.

Combeferre.

He didn’t know what to feel – relief that he’s not alone in this, sadness, happiness?

‘Enjolras,’ the man cried. ‘You’re alive! I mean – I don’t _– this is so weird_.’

‘How long have you known? How long have you remembered?’

‘Always,’ Combeferre replied. ‘I thought it was just me, I never dreamed that you’d…’

‘Do you think the others…?’

‘Maybe! If you are, if I am…’

‘This is crazy,’ Enjolras said, half laughing. He dried his tears. ‘I can’t believe this.’

Combeferre smiled at him, that smiles he felt like he knew so well. ‘I’ve missed you, Enjolras.’

‘God!’ He was never one for displays of affection in their previous life, but he couldn’t help himself now. He threw his arms around Combeferre and they clung to each other. ‘We have so much to talk about.’

‘I live just up the road,’ Combeferre said when they broke apart, jerking his thumb up the street. ‘I’ll make you some coffee and we can talk.’

It was strange, sitting in a modern apartment and sipping modern coffee, yet talking to a friend he’d last seen two centuries past. It was strange how they were different, for how could one who has experienced loss and death only to find themselves alive nearly two hundred years later ever hope to be the same? They had spent two decades apart, experiencing different lifestyles, making different friends, being marked by love and pain. But really, truthfully, they were hauntingly similar. Perhaps these new lives were simply following the modern equivalents of their past experiences.

Yet for all the differences and similarities, it was not nearly as strange as it should have been. The coffee went cold as they talked over each other, raising long dormant memories and making each other laugh with talk of their friends.

‘I remember Courf,’ Combeferre began, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘The night before the barricade we were sitting with Grantaire – he was quite ill – and he was joking even then.  Said that if he died and any of us lived, he’d make it his duty to haunt us to the best of his abilities. Do you think he – Enjolras? What is it?’

Grantaire. They had not spoken of him yet, and it sent a shiver curling through him to hear Combeferre breathing life into his name. Grantaire.  Cynical, devoted alcoholic Grantaire who gave his life for a cause he did not believe in. The others had often teased him for his adoration of their leader, but Enjolras had paid little attention to it until Grantaire was standing next to him with his hand clasped tightly in his own, and an expression upon his features unlike any he’d seen him possess before. Standing before the soldiers, his life near its end, Grantaire looked upon Enjolras with serenity.  It’s an image he cannot shake free from his mind.

‘Nothing,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Was just thinking how strange all of this is.’

Almost everything fell into place after that. After trawling the historical archives of Paris for answers as to the fates of their friends, they manage to pinpoint the location of an unmarked mass grave some way outside Paris. It was a bleak place, grey and run down.

‘Hey,’ Combeferre said, seeing Enjolras’ expression. ‘At least we’re all together, right?’

Then, miraculously, they discovered that he was wrong, that not all of their group perished at the barricade. Several hours later they were standing in the Montparnasse cemetery, smiling down at the gravestone.

HERE LIES

MARIUS PONTMERCY

BELOVED SON, FRIEND, HUSBAND

AND

EUPHRASIE ‘COSETTE’ PONTMERCY

BELOVED DAUGHTER AND WIFE

 

‘Still together,’ they both commented. They placed flowers on the forgotten grave and when they turned to go, they found a man watching them with an expression of mingled intrigue and confusion upon his face

‘Um,’ he started, fidgeting with his hands. ‘Tell me I’m not insane?’

‘Courfeyrac,’ they said together, relief and joy evident in their voices.

A familiar grin spread across his face. ‘Oh, thank fuck for that,’ he said, and then they were embracing and it felt as if nothing had changed.

They meet Joly next, outside the L'Universite Paris Descartes. They go on nothing more than an inkling; Combeferre’s suggestion that if he had been a medical student in the past, it was likely he’d be the same now. He had found them before they saw him, approaching them directly and addressing them by name. He’d remembered for some time now, and had been looking for them after he’d bumped into Jean Prouvaire and –

‘Jehan?’ Courfeyrac had squeaked. ‘You’ve found Jehan?’

‘Yeah,’ Joly said with a grin. ‘And Bossuet.’

One by one they gathered up the remainder of their friends; Courfeyrac bumped into Bahorel outside a nightclub, Jehan found Feuilly after reading a newspaper review about a Polish themed bar in eastern Paris.

They all remembered, they all got along just as well as they had done in 1832, and it was almost perfect, except for – Grantaire. Grantaire eluded them, and it drove Enjolras mad. No matter how hard they searched, they could not find a trace of him. He was never in any of Paris’ many bars, he was not enlisted in any of the art schools, nor did he box at any of the boxing rings or gyms in the city.

‘Maybe he didn’t come back,’ Bahorel said sadly one night. They were in a 24 hour café near to original location of the Musain. It’s the modern replacement. ‘Maybe he stayed…that side.’

‘Perhaps,’ Combeferre said. He received a glare from Enjolras and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘It’s been six months.’

‘What makes you so desperate to find him?’ Bahorel asked. ‘You were always so disdainful of him. You didn’t care for him then, what is so different now?’

‘That’s not true,’ Courfeyac protested before Enjolras can reply. ‘It’s not true that Enjolras didn’t care for him. But you know how Grantaire liked to provoke him.’

Enjolras closed his eyes briefly, and he saw Grantaire standing beside him, hope on a cynical face and love in those melancholic eyes.

‘We’re not giving him,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll find him.’

*

He awakes from a restive sleep, bathed in a thick sheen of sweat. Through the miniscule window he can see the night sky, and he guesses that it’s about 3am, maybe later. The sky is at its darkest.

He strains his hears and tries to pick up the sound of the guards outside the cell. He doesn’t know their activity at this time of the night. Perhaps they’ve all gone home to their wives and children. Perhaps they’re somewhere in the building playing card games. Perhaps-

A noise breaks through the thin air of the cell and he sits bolt upright. Was that a gunshot? It had certainly sounded like one. He holds his breath and tries to listen, but his ears are ringing and all he can hear is the quick beating of his heart.  But why would there be gunshots? He lets out a hoarse, ragged chuckle and immediately starts to wheeze. Maybe he’s being rescued at last! He wheezes again. It’s probably the guards fucking about. It wouldn’t be for the first time. Either that or he’s hallucinating. Again.

He sighs and lies back down, his muscles aching with the effort it took him to sit up so quickly. He closes his eyes again.

Another shot comes, then another and another and is that screaming? It continues for what must be several minutes.

He’s going insane. He’s mad. He’s never had hallucinations this bad. He grips the side of his head and lets out a long, crazed moan. Enough of this, enough of this pain and delirium and near insanity, enough –

The door to his cell swings open slowly, and the guard walks into the room. His cold, emotionless expression is gone. His skin is pale, his bottom lip quivers and when his dark eyes find Grantaire’s they are filled with terror.

Standing behind him is a tall man with dark blond curls and piercing blue eyes. He is holding a gun to the guard’s back.

‘On your knees,’ he commands.

Grantaire doesn’t know who he’s talking to, but something about the man is comforting, familiar. He scurries to the side of the cell as the guard sinks to the ground, murmuring incomprehensibly in Arabic.

‘I hope you’re praying for your redemption,’ the man says darkly, and then his long finger is pulling the trigger and the man slumps forward, blood weeping from his body.

He crosses the floor and kneels in front of Grantaire, the anger on his face replaced with concern. He reaches for his hand.

‘Enjolras,’ Grantaire breathes, smiling with hope.  He closes his eyes and falls from consciousness.

*


	2. Casablanca - Timbuktu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me apologise for how long this second chapter has taken - i've been rather overwhelmed with work recently. I was also overwhelmed (in a very different way) by the responses to the last chapter. I really wasn't expecting it at all. Thank you thank you thank you!

He hadn’t been easy to find. All they had had was grainy CCTV footage showing a group of men pulling a drunken and bewildered Grantaire from his hotel room. That was it. No names, no addresses, nothing. The men simply vanished back into the inky Sahara night from whence they came, taking their French captive with them.

If Les Amis were going to find him, things would have to change fast.

Fast forward 30 days to a small office in Timbuktu. The hotel manager is shaking with rage and fear. ‘Please,’ he is saying. ‘I have children, young girls, they are-’

‘No one is going to touch your daughters, Monsieur Diarra. No one will ever have to know about this. Tell us what we want to know and you will never hear from us again.’ The man sitting opposite him lowers his glasses and glances to the man sitting next to him.

‘Really, Diarra, you’re making this very difficult for yourself. Monsieur Combeferre here is right.’ Courfeyrac smiles. ‘Monsieur, we know that you let those men pass through your hotel. We know you made no attempt to stop them. You offered up the guest of Room 246 like a poor, innocent lamb to slaughter. Not protecting your guests is the greatest crime a man in charge of such an esteemed hotel as yours can commit.’

‘You don’t understand!’ Diarra looks frantic. He is sweating, his dark skin shining. With a shaking hand he reaches down to adjust the setting on an old fashioned fan that spins lethargically. ‘You don’t understand, these are dangerous men!’

In answer, Courfeyrac and Combeferre glance behind them to look pointedly at the tall, muscular man leaning against the door.

Bahorel flexes his biceps and curls his hands into menacing fists. He smiles.

*

Five minutes later and they are strolling down the street with the harsh sunlight beating down upon them. They are headed for a small café at the bottom of the street. They are smiling. Bahorel is whistling happily.

They find Enjolras sitting at a table in the back of the café. He is immersed in something on his laptop, his long fingers fluttering over the keyboard. He doesn’t glance up when the three men sit down next to him, merely takes a large sip from his cup of coffee and says, ‘So?’

‘He was being difficult until Bahorel crushed the can of coke on his desk with a light tap of his fingers,’ Courfeyrac says with a grin. ‘That was cool.’

‘He only knew one name. He recognised one of the men from a picture that had been circulating in the local newspapers. He knew him to be dangerous, and so did not stop him,’ Combeferre says.

‘Tell me,’ Enjolras says, his fingers poised on the keyboard.

‘Zurvan Tir.’

They watch as Enjolras types the name and waits.

‘Zurvan Tir, 38, Iranian citizen.’ He picks up a printed screenshot of the CCTV footage and compares it to the mug shot on his screen. He nods, apparently satisfied. ‘Gotcha.’

*

There is an old woman who sits outside his gates. To people who pass the house, she is just another beggar, another woman who didn’t quite fit into the system, another lost soul. They may note that her skin is several shades lighter than the local inhabitants of the city; they may ponder what a Middle Eastern woman is doing so far from home. They stare at her, taking in the dirty chador that covers her, and they blush when she raises her head and fixes a pair of dark, sorrowful eyes upon them. There is something unnerving about her, something frightening about the way her gaze follows them as they hurry past her.

(She had been lovely once, and so very naïve. She had been gifted a hauntingly beautiful voice, and long ago sung songs of love to a man who she adored.)

Her chador covers her hands, but if she were to unveil herself, one could see how deformed they are. The bones look as if they are twisted under her skin, which is deeply scarred and bruised. She rests them day after day on the pavement outside the gates, and day after day when he comes out he calmly steps on them. She looks into his face when he walks past her, willing him to glance down at her. He never does, and yet he never fails to feel the crunch of bones under the heel of his boot.

(She never sung to her husband.)

One afternoon she looks up to see three white men standing in front of her. A surge of loathing flows through her. No one is born bad, but she has seen many pale faced men do terrible things to people like her. These ones are young and handsome. She can feel their arrogance from where she is slumped.

They address her in French. ‘Is this the house of Zurvan Tir?’ the blond one says.

She sees the bulge in his jacket where a gun is hidden and says nothing.

‘Madame,’ he tries again, in a politer tone. ‘I am looking for Zurvan Tir. Do you know where he is?’

Her silence unnerves him. She watches as he casts a look at the man to his left, a man with glasses and a kind face. He kneels in front of her and addresses her in heavily accented Arabic.

‘Zurvan Tir knows the whereabouts of a very good friend of ours,’ he says. ‘He has been missing for a long time and we want him back. Zurvan Tir can tell us where he is.’

She would feel compassion for them if she had not seen the hilt of a pistol poking from the man’s jacket pocket. Instead her heart clenches painfully in her chest. She cannot watch this. She turns her gaze away from the men and looks down the street, willing them to leave. She knows they won’t. Hope has always been a knife in her battered heart.

The third man pushes the gate open and they leave her.

(She sung to the baby that she tried so desperately to hide from her husband. She sung when they took him from her.)

An hour passes before the gunshot breaks into the air. She closes her eyes and does not open them until the three men are in front of her again. The blond man opens his mouth to say something but before the words can spill from his lips she rises with startling agility and shrieks _. My son_ , her eyes scream. _My son_.

(She sung when her beautiful lover was hanged for loving a woman who was not his. She sung until they came for her, as well.)

The French men do not understand the meaning behind her wailing. They do not see anything but the terrifying emptiness in her mouth where years ago, when she was beautiful and innocent, there had once been a tongue.

*

There are three dead bodies in the long, dark corridor outside Grantaire’s cell. Taking care to be gentle with the man in his arms, he steps over them and walks further down the corridor in search of the rest of his friends.

It’s a strange place. The building had once been a military base, but it is obvious from the mouldy walls and the peeling grey paint that it has not served its original purpose for some time.  Still, he can understand why this was the chosen prison for Grantaire. It is almost impossible to reach, the walls surrounding it are high and foreboding and it carries an oppressive, melancholy atmosphere that would be enough to drive any man to insanity. And Grantaire spent almost two years here. How he managed to endure it for so long is miraculous.

Something warm is trickling down the side of his leg. He pauses, aware of a deep, burning pain in his calf. He curses under his breath and slowly lowers Grantaire to the concrete floor. He sinks down next to him and reaches down to yank the hem of his trousers up.

‘For _fuck’s_ sake,’ he mutters. He must’ve been shot when he and Courfeyrac were taking out the men in the entrance to the base. He did not feel anything then, nor in the minutes did it take for him to locate Grantaire’s cell and deal with the men he found there. But now that the danger has subsided, the pain is fighting to make itself felt. Christ, it shouldn’t pain him as much as it does; god knows he’s had eight times as worse before. But that had been like several bolts of lightning slicing through him and leaving nothing in their wake. This is unpleasant, deeply unpleasant; he can smell singed flesh and can hear the soft splatter of his blood dropping onto the concrete next to him.

He looks at Grantaire and feels a fool. One bullet in his leg is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ in comparison to eighteen months of isolation, torture, and near starvation.

If he wasn’t certain it was him, he might have found it difficult to recognise him. Grantaire looks terrible. The last time he had seen him he was lean and robust, a permanent alcohol induced tinge to his cheeks and his hair a thick tangle of black curls. Now he is skeletal, his cheeks sunken and the cheekbones close to pushing out of his skin. His skin looks as if it has never known sunlight, and his hair is dull and limp. He is death personified.

He reaches to feel his pulse and feels the blood flowing under his skin. He sighs and unthinkingly reaches for his hand. When last they had touched like this they were healthy men facing death. Now here they are again, Grantaire in the guise of death and a single bullet draining Enjolras’ leg of blood.

But then he coughs, Grantaire coughs, and his eyelids flutter open. ‘Enjolras?’ he croaks softly. ‘Enjolras, am I dead at last?’

The words both chill and relieve him. Before he’d been so bent on getting him out and to safety that he’d held back the quick beating of his heart, but now, safe in the knowledge that one of the others will surely come and find them soon, he lets himself bask in the realisation that Grantaire is alive; cynical drunken brilliantly intelligent Grantaire is alive and he-

‘You remember,’ Enjolras breathes.

‘How could I-’ his voice gives way to a minute of rasping coughs. ‘-forget,’ he finishes with a sigh. ‘I never did believe in God but I suppose I must if he sends me such a beautiful angel.’

‘You’re not dead, Grantaire. You’re safe, I promise you, we’re going to get you out of here and back to France. You will-’ he breaks off and his hands dart forward to catch Grantaire’s head as it drops back into unconsciousness. His bloody hands leave red smudges on his ghostly cheeks, making him look even more terrible than he is.

That is how Combeferre and Courfeyrac find them a few minutes later; slumped side by side and with Enjolras’ hands at the back of Grantaire’s neck.

‘Jesus fuck, Enjolras! We’ve been looking for you for ages. Are you okay? Is that – is that Grantaire?’ Combeferre says, taking in the motionless man on the floor as Courfeyrac kneels down to examine him. ‘Is he-’

‘He’s not dead,’ Enjolras replies, gritting his teeth as Courfeyrac jostles his leg. ‘But he might be soon, so we need to get him out of here.'

‘It’s really him,’ Courfeyrac breathes. ‘I can’t believe it. Wake up R, you fucker!’

‘Was he like this when you found him? Combeferre asks as he feels for a pulse and presses a hand to his forehead.

‘He was conscious.’

‘Did he-’

‘He remembered.’

‘We need to get him out of here,’ Combeferre says, leaping to his feet and motioning for Courfeyrac and Enjolras to do the same. ‘He’s not in a good way.’

‘Neither are you, by the look of it,’ says Courfeyrac, watching with a frown as Enjolras struggles to climb to his feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No shit,’ he replies sardonically. ‘You two carry R, I’ll follow. It’s just a minor gunshot wound. Go.’

Combeferre hesitates. ‘But-’

‘ _Go_ ,’ Enjolras insists firmly, and they do.

He follows them down the maze of corridors and out of the building to where the others have gathered, but in his mind he is still lost behind them. He suddenly sees flashes, short and violent, of a multitude of guns aimed at him, and goddamnit, this happens sometimes and it’s horrible, why is it that lately his flashbacks only ever seem to be of the last few moments when he was surrounded by his dead friends and he had Courfeyrac’s blood splattered across his cheek! He closes his eyes and stops, gasping for breath. The images in his mind are relentless, and so red, red, _red_. He loathes the colour now; it makes him think of spurting blood and failed revolution and –

‘Enjolras!’

He opens his eyes and Courfeyrac is standing in front of him, real and healthy and alive and he knows it’s ridiculous, they’ve been reunited for over a year now but he can’t help the outpouring of relief that flows through him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his mind slowly returning to him. ‘I had… an episode.’

That’s what Combeferre called them. Episodes. They all get them, but no one suffers quite as badly as he does. They’re panic attacks and nausea and overwhelmingly painful memories packed into one. They’re becoming more frequent.

Courfeyrac  touches a warm hand to his cheek and smiles. ‘It’s okay. You’re safe, I’m safe, we’re all here and together and fine.’

‘Grantaire?’

‘He’s in the car. We’re ready to go.’

It’s only then that he realises it is only him and Courfeyrac still standing outside the building. The others watch him with expressions of pity and concern from the cars.

‘Shit, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Do you want to lean on me? That leg looks nasty.’

They hobble back to the car and Courfeyrac helps him climb into the passenger seat. He ignores the looks he’s receiving from the others and stars out the window into the inky Sahara night. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here,’ he says.

‘I love it when you swear, Enjolras,’ Courfeyrac says. The engine splutters to life and they leave the horrible building behind them in a cloud of dust and sand.

*

Days pass, and the landscape changes. A plane is chartered, fat wads of cash are placed in greedy hands and the Amis leave the golden brown planes of Mali behind with no questions asked about the unconscious passenger hooked up to a makeshift drip. They breathe a collective sigh of relief when the plane touches down in Casablanca. Mali is – a wonderful place, a beautifully historical place, but they felt true danger there and came across many a terrible sight. Enjolras cannot shake the image of the mute woman they had encountered outside Zurvan Tir’s house.  

In the safety and warmth of the curious and ancient apartment that belonged to Enjolras’ grandfather, Grantaire drifts in and out of consciousness. He is barely aware of his changed surroundings and he takes no notice of the people around him. For several days his skin is burning hot to the touch and he is watched by several pairs of concerned eyes as he thrashes in the sweat drenched bed sheets. His dreams are vivid and real as life; he sees Paris of old, he sees revolutionary men being shot down and tossed into shallow graves, he sees a beautiful man standing by his side and smiling as they die together.

‘Enjolras!’ He cries out one particularly bad night. He’s being talking in his sleep a lot, mumbling incomprehensibly and crying out. His eyelids flutter rapidly. ‘Enjolras, why are all of our friends dead?’

He falls silent after that. From the foot of the bed, a red haired man with soft features frowns and lets out a soft sigh. He turns to glance up at the man kneeling by the bed and dabbing Grantaire’s flushed cheeks with a cold flannel. ‘How much more of this?’

The man tilts his head to the side and his brow furrows in sympathy as Grantaire whimpers in pain. ‘I don’t know, Jehan. It could be any time, really. You have to understand that Grantaire has been through much more than people ever should. He’s not only severely dehydrated and malnourished, he’s also caught pneumonia and his system hasn’t got anything left to fight it with. Give him time. He’ll get through this. He’s already showing some signs of improvement. You should have seen him last night.’

‘Hear that, R?’ Jehan says, reaching forward and taking a clammy hand into his own. ‘Combeferre says you’re getting better! Please fight, R, we all miss you so much. We’ve got so much to catch up on! We’re all waiting for you.’

*

It is late, the others have long since retired to bed and Courfeyrac  is walking from room to room, snuffing out the candles and switching off the rare electric light. He makes a special point, as he has done these past few nights, of poking his head around the door of the room in which Grantaire sleeps and seeing that he is alright. Tonight should be no different, and he is expecting to see his still form curled under the sheets and his messy black hair covering the pillows.

But Grantaire is not asleep; he is not lying prone beneath the sheets. He is sitting upright in bed, his face fearful and confused, his blue eyes flashing in the dark as they meet the startled eyes of Courfeyrac.

‘You’re awake!’ he cries, but his euphoria does not last long.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Grantaire demands desperately, and all Courfeyrac can think is – _oh_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions/criticisms please feel free to pop over to my [Tumblr](http://www.pompetypom.tumblr.com) :)


	3. Casablanca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a prize for anyone who remembers this fic, haha. I'm so so sorry that this has gone untouched for so long, i have been suffering from a terrible and seemingly terminal case of writer's block but I seem to have found the cure, hurrah!

Enjolras stares at his reflection in the gilded, elaborate mirror in his bathroom. He raises a hand to his right cheekbone, where 200 years ago there had been a thin silver scratching of a scar. It had been given to him during a fight when he was younger, eighteen or so, when the revolutionary fervour that boiled in his veins was yet to be tamed into the cool, calculating precision it became. He can vaguely recall the incident – there had been a drunken bigot of a man hurling abuse at a group of young women. It had been his first brush with danger when the man held a short, crude knife to Enjolras’ cheek and had pressed just hard enough for the cold metal to sink into the skin and draw blood. He’d held it there threateningly, and Enjolras had glared at him despite the pain until one of the girls came running back with a policeman.

The once scarred skin is smooth and unblemished, one small difference that combined with a few others (shorter hair, tanned skin, a brushing of stubble across his jaw that would have looked unkempt in 1830s Paris) is somehow enough to make him look very different. The same, yet altered. Changed. And just as he can see the change, so can he feel it within him. For there is something crucially altered in him now, something that he knows Combeferre and Courfeyrac and the others have noticed but on which they have not commented.

At the barricades, he had wept when he killed his first man. Now he has killed many more than that, perhaps six or seven, and though he finds killing to be a repugnant, terrible thing, he cannot help but feel remorseless. The men whose lives he stole were bad in a way he could not forgive. The men who had kept Grantaire locked away had tortured him and starved him and Enjolras is certain that he had not been their first victim. Then there had been Zurvan Tir and – Enjolras’ lip curls at the memory. Upon their entrance to his house they had discovered a grotesque monument to his victims; a heaping of human skulls under a pane of glass that served as a coffee table.

They had surprised him. He was so used to being feared, so sure that no man would ever succeed in harming him, and it was this arrogance that had been his downfall. With the three guns pointed at him he calmly told them what he knew about Grantaire, telling them that it made no difference to him whether or not they found him for he had already received his payment for his role in the kidnapping. It had been simple, too easy. It’s been on Enjolras’ mind a lot. He worries that they missed something, that perhaps Tir had not been killed with the three bullets they embedded in his chest. But he had not been the goal, and so they had left and marched on towards the abandoned military base in the middle of the desert where Grantaire was being held.

He’s killed a lot of men now. His long fingers pull triggers with ease, and his timeworn heart feels nothing for it. It is all for the greater good.

*

‘You don’t… you don’t know who I am?’ Courfeyrac says.

The skeletal figure in the bed shakes his head. ‘Is this some sort of sick game?’ he asks shakily. He looks around the room, as if he is expecting to see other men standing in the shadows. He murmurs a question in something that sounds like Arabic and looks to Courfeyrac for a response. When he gets none, he frowns. ‘You are Algerian, then? Moroccan?’

‘I am French.’

Grantaire’s eyes narrow. ‘Did they send you? Where have they gone?’

‘Who, Grantaire?’

He recoils at the sound of his name. ‘Where have they gone?’ he repeats. He resumes his searching looks around the room fearfully. ‘Are they here? What is the point of this?’ his voice is small and frightened.

Courfeyrac takes a step closer to the bed and makes as if he is about to sit down, but Grantaire shrinks away from him and he stills. ‘Grantaire, I –’ He sighs. ‘Listen to me. You’re in Casablanca. You are safe. The men who held you captive are dead.’

‘No,’ Grantaire whispers.

‘My name is Etienne Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac. I was with the group who found you and brought you here.’

‘No,’ he says again.

‘Grantaire, your ordeal is over.’

The man in the bed lifts his hands to his face and lets out several deep breaths. It is as if he is trying to weep, but when he lowers his hands, his eyes are dry. ‘Are you with the government?’

Courfeyrac cannot help but smile wryly. ‘No. We can no longer trust the French government on hostage situations.’ He carefully sits on the corner of the bed. ‘It used to be the case that French citizens were the prime targets for kidnapping because the terrorists knew that the French government would pay whatever they asked. Had you been taken a few years ago, perhaps, your ordeal would have been over a lot quicker. The new leadership has taken a harder stance on hostage takings. The President has spent too much time in the company of the Americans and British.’ There is a bitter twist to his words.

‘Do they know I am free?’

‘No,’ Courfeyrac says. ‘Nor will they for some time, that is how it must be. That is why we are still in Africa.’

‘I do not understand,’ Grantaire says softly.

‘Courfeyrac!’ A new voice, from outside the room. ‘A word please!’

Courfeyrac shrugs at Grantaire. ‘Sorry. He can be a bit uptight. I’ll be back!’ He shoots Grantaire what he hopes is a reassuring smile before ducking out of the room to find an exasperated Combeferre waiting for him. ‘Excuse me, I was in the middle of – ’

‘I know exactly what you were in the middle of. You don’t exactly have a quiet voice, Courf.’ Combeferre purses his lips. ‘Enjolras wanted to be the one to tell him all of this.’

‘Stuff that, Enjolras isn't here. The poor guy can’t be expected to wait until next week –’

‘I just phoned him, he is changing his flight and coming early tomorrow morning.’

‘Even so, Grantaire is –’

‘Vulnerable! He’s only just woken up, couldn't you have waited before you bombarded him with this news?’

‘He’s confused! What was I supposed to say to him!’

‘Well there’s no point in arguing now, the damage is done. Just please refrain from saying anything else. He’ll understand, he trusts you.’

Courfeyrac snorts. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Please, you and he have always been close –’

‘He doesn't remember.’

Combeferre frowns, looking taken aback. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Not only does he have no apparent recollection of being rescued, he does not know me.’

‘Are you sure? How can that be? None of the others have had problems in remembering.’

‘None of the others have spent over a year in captivity.’

*

He opens his eyes to a room bathed in sunlight. Someone must have been in whilst he was sleeping, for the curtains have been drawn back and there is a pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of the enormous bed. He slowly rises and pads to a tall, gilded mirror and grimaces at the reflection that leers back at him. It’s the first time he’s seen himself so clearly, and Christ, he looks terrible.

His stomach growls; a reminder that he hasn't had breakfast for a very, very long time. His hand carries a bruise where there must have been a drip to give him nutrients when he was at his worst, so his hunger is just about bearable. All the same, he dresses quickly in a pair of black jeans that would be skinny did his legs not resemble twigs. There’s a dark green t-shirt as well, and he pulls it on, wondering how complete strangers can buy him clothes he would have picked out for himself.

In truth, none of this feels real. How can it possibly? He’d given up all hope of seeing daylight again, had accepted the darkness and existed in a state of nihilistic boredom. Now he has slept in a real bed again, and he’s being taken care of by a group of French people who, if the man last night (Courfeyrac, his brain supplies helpfully) is anything to go by, are kind and funny and normal. It’s all too good to be true, there must be some catch. He can’t really, truly be free, can he?

He falls back down onto the bed and buries his face in bony hands. If he could cry, he would; he feels like it would do him good. Instead he takes several deep, shaking breaths. He’s not built for this. God, they should have left him there. Self-loathing surges through him, and it’s a welcome old friend that he clutches to eagerly. What were they thinking, rescuing a good-for-nothing drunken shadow of a man like him? True, he has not tasted alcohol since he was captured, but that isn't something he’s grateful for, not by a long shot. He had burnt his way through the hell of agonising withdrawal alone; the shaking, the fever, the nightmares, the paranoia, but now the thought of a drink is gripping. He should just leave! He’ll take one of these expensive looking silver candlesticks and he can take it to a nearby market and sell it for as much as he can, and then he’ll find his way to the black market and someone selling alcohol and he’ll take whatever there is, everything there is-

The plan invigorates him, and he rises to his feet and curls his hand around the heavy candlestick. In his excitement he does not notice that man standing in the doorway, watching him with furrowed eyebrows.

‘Grantaire?’

He spins around in shock, dropping the candlestick onto the bed where it rolls off and hits the wooden floorboard with a low clunk. His cheeks flame and he lowers his gaze. ‘I- I wasn't-’

‘Do you recognise me?’ the man asks. He is tall and muscular and would probably look terrifying were it not for the hopeful grin at his lips and the lock of brown hair falling in front of his eyes.

Grantaire slowly takes him in. ‘No,’ he says quietly. Will this imposing man tell the others what he had been about to do? He is all at once flooded with regret. Oh, for shame, had he really been about to steal from these kind people? They really, really should have just left him where he was.

The man sighs. ‘Damn,’ he says. ‘So it is true. You really don’t remember? I was really hoping Courfeyrac was kidding.’ The man seems to be talking entirely to himself.

Grantaire frowns, confused by the words. ‘Remember?’ he echoes. ‘Remember what?’

The man’s eyes widen. ‘Uh… remember, um, remember when we rescued you.’ The lie goes unnoticed. He sticks out a hand. ‘Name’s Bahorel, pleased to make your acquaintance. My many services include being a fantastic drinking companion, bad jokes and I’m always willing to duff up a few people if they threaten my amigos.’ He curls his enormous hands into fists and darts towards Grantaire, playfully biffing him on the shoulder.

Grantaire shrinks away from him, suddenly full of fear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasps, ‘I really wasn't going to take it, I mean, I was, but I didn't mean any harm, I swear it-’

‘Bahorel!’ A new voice shouts. ‘Leave him alone.’

They both turn; Grantaire still shaking and pale, Bahorel looking absolutely mortified.

A tall, serious looking man is standing in the doorway and scowling at Bahorel. He has soft brown hair and is wearing a pair of glasses that are hanging off the edge of a long, slender nose.

Bahorel holds his hands up. ‘I didn’t mean any harm, Combeferre! I was just playing. Sorry, man,’ he says, turning back to Grantaire and shooting him an apologetic, bashful smile.

‘I should also have mentioned that you should never take me seriously.’ He pats Grantaire on the shoulder gently. ‘I’ll see you for breakfast, yeah? We’ve locked Prouvaire in the kitchen and he makes unforgettable pancakes.’ He smiles at them both before bounding for the door, leaving Grantaire alone with Combeferre.

The man crosses the room and sits down next to Grantaire on the bed. ‘I’m glad you’re finally awake,’ he says gently. ‘You had us all rather worried. My name is Combeferre. I am part of the group that brought you here from Mali. Courfeyrac tells me that you have no recollection of it?’

Something about this man comforts Grantaire. He is soft, gentle, and his brown eyes are full of compassion. He feels like an old friend already.

Grantaire tries to think. He searches his memories for anything new, for something other than the darkness, the cold, dank cell and never ending pain and hunger. ‘No,’ he replies quietly. ‘I don’t remember it. I’m sorry.’

‘That happens sometimes. There’s only so much a person can take. The mind can close itself off after a point when it has endured too much pain. It’s nothing to worry about.’ He smiles at him. ‘You must have a million questions.’

‘Just one, actually,’ Grantaire replies. ‘Why me?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’m sure there must be many other people in hostage situations, people who are much more deserving of your hospitality than I am. I don’t understand it.’

Combeferre looks at him searchingly for a long minute. ‘Grantaire, there is so much to it that you do not know. I fear that I am not the one to tell you, nor is it the right time to tell you. But for now, you must know that you are here because you are someone we all greatly care about.’

He wants to give a derisive snort. How ridiculous is that? Someone we greatly care about. The universe has gone insane.

‘There is something I must give you,’ Combeferre says before Grantaire can reply. He rises to his feet and walks to the small bedside table, pulling open the draw and bringing out-

‘My camera?’ Grantaire cannot believe it. He had assumed that his beloved, battered camera was lost forever, left in his hotel room in Bamako.

‘We found it in the compound where you were kept.’ Combeferre passes it to him and watches with a smile as Grantaire caresses it with adoration on his face. ‘Your captors must have wanted the pictures you’d taken, the memory card is gone.’

‘No matter,’ Grantaire says brightly. ‘They were horrible pictures. Thank you so much.’

‘Pleasure.’ He stands and offers Grantaire a hand. ‘Do you think you’re ready to meet the rest of us?’

Grantaire would rather hole himself up in the relative safety of the strange, time warped room for the rest of the day than venture outside. But they've been kind to him, these strange people, and he hasn't experienced kindness in years. It’s difficult, and every impulse inside him is telling him to run, run, run - but he swallows against the nervous bile that has risen in his throat and he nods, accepting Combeferre’s hand and following him out of the room and into the corridor outside.

He can hear voices coming from the far end of it; happy, laughing voices. He’s suddenly hit with an intense longing for human warmth, for friendship and happiness and love. He stumbles and has to place a clammy hand on the wall to steady himself. It feels paramount, this moment. He is so desperate to be liked, and a string of nerves coils tightly in his gut.

‘Grantaire?’ Combeferre says, suddenly coming into his line of vision. ‘It’s okay, Grantaire. I promise you that everything is okay. We already love you.’

‘Stop talking like that,’ he murmurs in response, but he lets the man take his arm and lead him firmly towards the end of the corridor, towards the others. When they reach the door, Combeferre holds up a hand.

‘Just wait here a moment,’ he says, before darting into the room and pulling the door closed behind him. The voice fall silent, and Grantaire strains to hear what Combeferre is saying to them, but the walls are old and thick and he hears nothing but low murmurs.

He looks back at the long passage and wonders what would have happened had he not been disturbed by Bahorel. Would he have managed to sneak out of the building? Would he be long gone by now, slinking underneath the shadows of buildings towards the promise of alcohol with no thought to his rescuers? Would he be returning to his old Malian ways of simple self-destruction? For shame, for shame, for shame.

The door opens, interrupting his turbulent thoughts. It is not Combeferre, but the other – Courfeyrac? Such a strange, old fashioned name. The man holds the door open, beaming at him. ‘R,’ he is saying. ‘I hope you like pancakes.’

Grantaire looks beyond him and into the kitchen. There are many men, at least six; and a pretty dark haired woman in her early twenties. He stares at them, and they stare back at him in a silence that stretches over minutes; them waiting desperately for him to speak, him hoping the same. Finally, he turns back to look at Courfeyrac and says in a small voice,  
‘I love pancakes.’

Just like that, the spell is broken. The air is filled with the noise of chairs being scraped back, of excited murmurs and whispers as they all rise to their feet and move towards him. It’s overwhelming. He learns their names as they guide him to the table and sit him down; Jean Prouvaire (‘Jehan. Please. Just Jehan.’), Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Eponine. Bahorel places a plate of pancakes in front of him and he and the others try not to stare as Grantaire takes small, hesitant bites before attacking the food in front of him with the desperation of the near starved man he is.

They talk to him, around him; telling him how happy they are that he’s better, how excited they are to get to know him. It’s still a mystery to him, and he’s desperate to know more – who this strange band of Frenchmen is and why they have rescued him; how they seem unusually familiar with him despite the fact that he has only been with them for a few days – but for now, he’s happy to accept more pancakes from Jehan and smile nervously at the others when they talk to him.

They seem to like him – god knows why, god knows how, but they do. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and he wipes his sweaty palms on his new jeans. They are still talking to him but he no longer hears the words; just his own breathing and the tremor of his heartbeat that reverberates around his body.

Combeferre watches him and worries. He meets Courfeyrac’s gaze across the table and they nod at each other. They quietly ask the others to leave them alone with Grantaire and they go readily. Grantaire doesn't look up from his empty plate.

‘Grantaire? R, are you listening? Can you hear us?’ Courfeyrac says. He reaches across the table and gently touches a hand to Grantaire’s arm. ‘We know you’re probably feeling very shell-shocked, perhaps that was a bit too much too soon. Everyone was so excited to see you that I think they all forgot how all of this is still so new to you.’

‘You must tell us what you’re feeling, okay? If you start to feel a bit panicky or a bit frightened, just let us know and we’ll sort something out.’

‘Yeah! Combeferre here is a doctor –’

‘A medical student!’

‘A doctor, so you can feel safe with him; he knows his shit.’

But he isn't listening. He has lifted his gaze and is staring at the doorway; staring at the man who stands there staring right back at him. He has earphones draped around his neck and is carrying a small suitcase and he is a complete stranger, just like the rest of them, but there is something different about him. He is beautiful and strong and in his dark blue eyes there is something that makes Grantaire’s heart ache. A minute of this passes and neither of them says anything. He feels utterly naked, feels as if those blue eyes are peering deep into his soul and he knows immediately that he can never hope to hide anything of himself from him.

The man steps into the kitchen and towards Grantaire, ignoring the surprised cries from his two friends. He holds out a hand to him, his own heart hammering in his chest. The cynic rises from his chair in a daze and when their hands meet there is a short jolt of something – the sound of a gun being fired many times rings in Enjolras’ ears and the feeling of something piercing his heart shoots through Grantaire.

‘Welcome home,’ Enjolras says softly, and though the words make utterly no sense to him, Grantaire cries for the first time in years.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions/criticisms please feel free to pop over to my [Tumblr](http://www.pompetypom.tumblr.com) :)


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